


A Day of Grief, A Moment of Peace

by thetbone



Category: The Bold Type
Genre: F/F, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentor/Protégé, One Shot, Parent Death, Pre-show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 12:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15267753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetbone/pseuds/thetbone
Summary: An unlikely person steps in to comfort Jane during an emotionally challenging day. Takes place three weeks after Jane starts working at Scarlet. One-shot.





	A Day of Grief, A Moment of Peace

It’s the three-week anniversary of Jane working at Scarlet, and it’s the first morning since she started that she doesn’t spring out of bed the second her alarm rings. The nerves and excitement she usually feels in her heart are replaced by a heavy, nauseous feeling in her stomach. The smell of her roommate’s strawberry toaster strudels warming in the microwave is usually a familiar comfort, but today the scent is over-sugary, almost offensive in its sweetness.

At first, Jane doesn’t even know why. She’s just as excited to walk through the doors of the magazine she’s idolized since she was a kid. Just as worried she’s going to majorly fuck up and embarrass herself in front of her boss Margaret. Or worse, her boss’s boss Jacqueline. 

When she goes to unlock her phone and take her morning scroll through Twitter, it suddenly dawns on her. Hits her right in the gut. Time: 6:45 am. Date: Wednesday, May 28th.

Her mom’s birthday. 

The 15th one she hasn’t been alive for.

Jane considers calling in sick. Closing her blinds and grabbing a box of tissues and crying all day long that she misses her mom and also is maybe sort of starting to forget her mom but will never, ever be able to get rid of the image of her mom hooked up to those terrifying, beeping machines. 

She drafts an entire email to Margaret, lying that unfortunately she’s contracted that awful flu that’s been going around the office, but her cursor hovers over the send button. Holing up in her room is guaranteed to feel like a never-ending day, and work is nothing if not a distraction, Jane realizes. 

She closes out of her email, rolling out of bed and lethargically getting ready before making her way into the kitchen. “Good morning, tiny Jane,” her roommate greets her, licking icing off her finger. “You’re up late today.”

Jane gives her a small smile. “Just hump day blues,” she replies. Though they’d only found each other on an apartment-hunting Facebook page a little over a month ago, she and Sutton had already become fast friends. That didn’t mean, however, she felt comfortable sharing her deepest, darkest moments with the redhead yet.

“I feel that,” Sutton replies. “Coffee’s fresh. Help yourself,” she says, motioning to the half-full pot next to the microwave. 

Jane’s stomach churns at the thought. “Thanks, but I think I’m gonna pass today.” 

Sutton looks up from her phone, eyebrows knitting into concern. “But how will you write the words without the caffeine?”

Jane chuckles. “Considering the only writing I do right now is on post-its when I’m taking Margaret’s messages, I think I’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah, but it’s only a matter of time before you’re writing features and handling your own column. Two columns, even!” Sutton says enthusiastically.

“Sure,” Jane says, slinging her purse over her shoulder.

“Just wait—it’ll happen. You’ll be all, ‘Oh, but I couldn’t _possibly_ write an advice column _and_ a sex column _and_ conduct an interview with cover star Oprah _and_ make it to lunch with Beyoncé this week,’” Sutton says dramatically, clutching her chest. “And Jacqueline will be like, ‘But Jane, our readers _love_ you!” She drops to her knees, folding her hands in prayer. “Please, give the people what they want!”

Jane laughs, rolling her eyes and opening the door. “Whatever you say.” 

“You’ll see, Jane Sloan!” Sutton swears through a mouth full of Pop-Tart, pointing a confident finger at her. “You’ll see!” 

Jane shuts the door, and her small grin lasts until she’s at the stairs. Any other day, Sutton’s praising antics—as silly as they are—would keep her going all morning. But of course, Jane realizes on her walk to the subway station, and again scanning her ID to get through office security, and again on the elevator ride up to Scarlet’s floor, this isn’t just any other day. And it never will be.

***

As an editorial assistant, Jane’s days are mostly filled with answering calls, fetching coffee, reminding Margaret of meetings and deadlines, and then being on the receiving end of Margaret’s wrath because she doesn’t want to attend said meeting and is cutting it awfully close on said deadline.

But every Wednesday at noon, Jane gets the treat of sitting in on pitch meetings and taking notes for Margaret. For one hour every Wednesday, Jane gets to sit around a big table with all the real writers, imagining she is one and dreaming of the day she won’t have to pretend anymore.

She’s usually all-too-eager to transcribe everything everyone says, jot down all their proposals for the new issue’s personality quizzes and sex positions. She plays a little game with herself, trying to guess how Jacqueline will react to each one. Jane keeps a whole list of her own ideas in a separate document just in case she’s ever asked to speak up.

Today, though, is different. She’s completely off her game. Not only is she not writing down her own bursts of inspiration, but she’s barely writing anything down at all. It’s like everyone is trying to make her miserable. Are padded bras in or out? Are yellow roses just for sick grandmothers, or are they romantic? Who are some kick-ass female entrepreneurs inventing world-changing technology while also raising children? Everything seems to be connecting to her mom, though logically she knows she’s just being oversensitive.

About halfway through the meeting, Margaret actually kicks her under the table to snap her out of her daze. Jane whimpers involuntary, self-consciously sinking down in her chair when a couple people turn to glance at her.

She looks around the room, hoping for a friendly face to ground her back in reality, but there’s nobody in sight. Sutton’s department doesn’t attend these meetings, and Kat, her only other real friend at Scarlet, is accompanying her boss on a photo shoot offsite.

“All right,” Jacqueline says finally, shutting her oversized binder definitively. “I think we’re done for today unless anyone has any final thoughts they’d like to add or something they’d like to discuss.”

_Please no, please no, please no_ , Jane thinks, biting down on her lip, wanting nothing more than to get back to the safe solitude of her desk. 

“Well, there is one thing,” says food writer Antonio. Jane suddenly _hates_ stupid food writer Antonio. He reaches under the desk, pulling out a huge cardboard box from a paper bag. “I don’t know if you all know this, but it is a _very_ special day for our girl Chelsea,” he starts. 

Chelsea, one of the digital designers, covers her face, giggling. _There’s no way this is happening right now_ , Jane thinks. _There’s no way the universe is this cruel._

Antonio opens the box to reveal a cake, taking a lighter from the bag and setting the candles aflame. “Can we all wish Chelsea a very happy—very dirty—thirty?” Antonio asks. 

The entire room erupts into an off-key chorus of happy birthday. Jane can feel her heartbeat quickening, and she struggles to catch her breath. She racks her brain. She thinks she remembers reading somewhere that you should try inhaling slowly through your nose and exhale out your mouth. Or was it the opposite? In through the mouth and out through the nose? Neither way feels like it’s especially helping.

Suddenly the room is getting hot and tears are burning her eyes and she has to _get out of here now, right now_. She quickly but indiscreetly walks out of the room, mumbling something about finding a bathroom. She looks over her shoulder a few times and miraculously doesn’t see anyone following her, thank god.

Jane walks with purpose through the bullpen. She must look like a maniac, huffing and puffing and shooting panicked looks behind her. She needs to be alone, somewhere with more privacy than her desk or even the bathroom.

Almost subconsciously, Jane walks to the fashion closet. She and Sutton have been meeting Kat there before work for the past few days to catch each other up on the previous night’s activities, talk about office crushes, hype each other up for the day, and make plans to meet up again at lunch and do it all over again before going their separate ways. 

Jane turns the knob and pulls on the door, but it doesn’t budge. She tries again, yanking so hard she thinks her shoulder might come out of its socket, but still it doesn’t move. She puts the entirety of her weight behind it, but it remains firmly shut. Jane lets out what can only be described as a shriek before kicking the bottom of the door, squeezing her eyes shut in defeat. 

And then, just like that, she hears a _click._ When she opens her eyes again, she sees the door has opened as if by magic. She feels exactly half a second of relief before she turns around in horror, knowing some maintenance man has probably just witnessed her throw an actual tantrum. Once she blinks the blurriness away and can make out the figure standing behind her, it’s even worse than she imagined.

Standing behind her is not some janitor. It’s not a fellow assistant or a guy from the finance department or even Margaret. No, standing behind her is Jacqueline Carlysle herself, dressed in an all-white power suit Jane would never dare to wear for fear of spilling something on it.

“They had to close it for cleaning this morning,” Jacqueline explains flippantly. “A model somehow managed to stab herself with a Louboutin yesterday. Bled all over the carpet. It was a whole ordeal. But they’re done now.”

“Th-thanks,” Jane manages to stutter. Desperate to get away from Jacqueline, she scrambles into the closet. She’s about three steps inside when it happens. The toxic sterility, just like that of her mother’s hospital room, hits her nose, triggering something inside her. Before she knows it, she’s crouching over the tiny trashcan where she usually stuffs her granola bar wrappers. 

She hears the faint sound of a door closing and prays that Jacqueline has decided she has no time for this today, mercifully leaving her to hurl in peace. However, the light sound of footsteps on the carpet tells her this is not the case.

“I’m fine,” Jane promises, a comment which Jacqueline promptly ignores.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jane sees Jacqueline walk over to the accessory bin and grab a scrunchie, which Sutton informed Jane are apparently very in this season.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” Jane repeats before vomiting again, completely disproving her point. She feels Jacqueline gather her hair back, tying it into a loose ponytail before placing a hand on her back, rubbing it gently. At first, Jane tenses in mortification, but after a moment she begins to feel herself relax despite herself. While Jacqueline no doubt has an intimidating presence, she also has distinct ability to make you feel instantly at ease.

Once Jane is sure there will be no more puking, she stands up and smooths out her shirt. “Well, thanks,” she says awkwardly, planning to make a speedy exit. 

“Hold on,” Jacqueline says. “Why don’t you sit down for a second,” she suggests, jerking her head towards the velvet bench in the middle of the room. 

“Oh no, that’s okay,” Jane says as nonchalantly as she can manage. “You sh-I mean _I_ should-we should probably get back to work,” she stumbles. 

“I think we can spare a few minutes,” Jacqueline persists with that unreadable, unsettlingly casual tone.

Jane opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Jacqueline sits, patting the space next to her with finality. “Jane.” 

Jane gingerly takes a seat, perching herself on the very edge of the bench. The moment of silence is magnifying her anxiety, and she grasps at a way to fill the space. “You know my name,” she blurts.

Jacqueline laughs. “Of course. I know all the assistants’ names,” she says, rummaging around in her purse.

“Really?”

“No,” Jacqueline responds honestly. “I try, but I can’t keep up anymore. I do, however, know every assistant’s name with a resume as impressive as yours. Mint?” she asks, holding out a container of Altoids.

Jane takes one, her head reeling from the compliment. “Thanks.” 

Jacqueline nods, pulling out a tiny package of tissues and offering them to Jane as well. “Your mascara,” she says, drawing imaginary circles around her own eyes. 

“Thanks,” Jane says again, dabbing at her face with the Kleenex. She no doubt looks like a puffy mess. “You’re so…” Jane starts without knowing how she’s going to finish. _Perfect? Amazing? Nice?_ “…prepared,” she says decisively. 

“Thank you. I try.” Jacqueline pats the bag. “I also have a mini first aid kit, an extra set of car keys, and a pair of flats in here. I call it my Mary Poppins bag.”

Jane nods, remembering when she used to crawl into her mother’s lap to watch the movie together. Her favorite part was always when Julie Andrews flew down with her umbrella for the first time. There was still so long before the children would have to say goodbye to her. Jane feels her throat get sore again.

The memory must be showing on her face. “Do you want to talk about it?” Jacqueline says.

Jane shakes her head. “I’m fine.” 

“You’ve said that three times, but when I find people vomiting next to a $5,400 Alexander McQueen jacket, that’s usually a pretty good indicator that they’re not,” Jacqueline replies coolly. 

Jane bites down on her lip in embarrassment. She’s been trying to stop, Sutton having chastised her on more than one occasion that it messes up her perfectly-applied gloss.

Jacqueline softens, taking Jane’s hand. “Now I know that I’m the Editor-in-Chief, but I’m also just a person. And a friend. And a pretty good listener.”

Jane looks at Jacqueline, who gives her a warm, encouraging look.

_What the hell,_ Jane suddenly thinks. _She’s already managed to cry and puke in front of Jacqueline in less than a month at Scarlet—it’s not like things can get much worse. And maybe, just maybe it’ll help._

Jane takes a deep breath. “It’s my mom’s birthday,” she says. 

Jacqueline looks at Jane in a way that lets Jane know she has her undivided attention.

“And…I miss her,” Jane admits. “A lot.” 

Jacqueline nods. “It’s completely normal to feel homesick, especially when-”

“She died,” Jane cuts her off. She doesn’t want to be rude, but the sooner she can get it out the better.

“I see.” Jacqueline squeezes her hand. “I’m so sorry, Jane.”

“It happened a long time ago,” Jane focuses on the massive shoe wall. “I was in kindergarten.” 

“Still, I’m sure it can’t be easy,” Jacqueline says sympathetically but with a noticeable lack of pity, which Jane appreciates.

“It’s not,” Jane admits. Though she does feel a little lighter after saying it aloud, she feels her eyes start watering and her nose start running again. When she goes to reach for another tissue, Jacqueline surprises her by wrapping her arms around her.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day. I’ll tell Lauren to send Sutton home early and let Kat join you as soon as she gets back.”

Jacqueline pulls away, smiling at Jane’s dumbfounded expression. “I may not know everyone’s names, but I do pay attention. You three have something special. Promise me you’ll hold onto that.”

Jane nods. “I promise.”

“And know that my door is always open, too.”

“Thank you,” Jane replies. She’ll probably never, ever take her up on it—it’s going to take years for the humiliation from today to subside—but the offer alone is comforting.

“Don’t thank me,” Jacqueline says, getting up and walking to the exit, resting a hand on the doorframe. “Just promise me you’ll knock before you start kicking it,” she winks. “I think you might have left a dent in this one.”


End file.
